


When in Dagda, do as Dagdans do

by ShiDreamin



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Female My Unit | Byleth, Femdom, Kinktober, Moaning, Nipple Play, Overstimulation, Riding, Sex Toys, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Steampunk, Vaginal Sex, Vibrators, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27026314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiDreamin/pseuds/ShiDreamin
Summary: Claudeleth have some fun with vibrators. A lot of fun.Kinktober Day 13+14: Moans/Vibrators
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 47





	When in Dagda, do as Dagdans do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sanguia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguia/gifts).



At the core of it, it’s Byleth’s words that damn them all. Tall tales of travels to worlds beyond Fodlan walls, to places where trees touch the clouds and where the seas are so sparkling clean that one can see the fish that crawl at the bottom of the water. Byleth spins stories about people with dances that can summon spirits, people who wield technology that can capture a person in a painting, people who travel via machines and not horses nor wyverns, on tracks longer than even the oldest sea serpents.

It’s a world that doesn’t sound real, and Ingrid can’t believe she’s the first in the room to mention it.

“That’s impossible. How can a machine move faster than pegasi? And silently as well?” Ingrid shakes her head, a wary cross of her arms that hasn’t moved since Byleth’s begun spinning their tales. “If such a weapon truly existed, Dagda would have never lost a war, nor give up any territory.” Though her eyes stay resolute on Byleth, the rest of the table takes an uneasy glance towards Petra, who sits otherwise perfectly content at the table.

“It’s not a weapon,” Byleth explains, spreading their hands to a wide length. “It could be used to transport troops, but only along the tracks already put down. From Fodlan,” their right hand waves, “to Brigid,” their left hand waves, “it would be one track to get over. It wouldn’t be good as a weapon because both nations would know where the bridge is, and no armies could get through this route without both sides knowing.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Ferdinand murmurs, scratching one hand along his chin. “What is the effectiveness of this track if nothing can be transported over? No country could survive a war with such an obvious entryway, yes?”

“It’s not for war,” Claude cuts in, laughing at the aborted noise Ferdinand lets out at his interruption. “Trains are for transport: people, cattle, food. Say Fodlan was suffering from a famine, right? Hypothetically, with a train to Dagda, they could send over food while we figure out the cause. They’re very useful.”

“You say that as though you’ve seen one yourself.” Sylvain points out, teasing. It’s more entertaining than anything, the holes he intends to poke in Claude’s words, a continued semi-flirting battle that extends from breakfast through dinner.

“I have. They’re not as fast as you’d like.” Shamir’s voice is a welcome break through the chatter, and the table silences when she crosses her arms, lying back against the chair with a raised eyebrow. “What? Finish your food before you bother me anymore.”

Dinner resumes with little more fanfare, Still, the idea of a train lingers over the table, and it’s chewing over the slightly overcooked pheasant that Claude has an idea.

-

Being a king is never easy. Between the never-ending list of requests from neighboring nobles and royals to the strange complaints from border to border, the pile of “to-do”s is a mountain Claude is often afraid to begin climbing, lest it collapses on top of him.

There are luckily easier tasks for him to tackle on a daily basis: satisfying the queen would be one of his favorites.

Byleth’s fingers curl in his hair as he licks at her clit, scissoring two fingers within her the way she likes. She moans, her eyes tracking his, as her foot continues its pressing on his softened member. He shakes into her thighs, still oversensitive from cumming already, pressing close until his nose meets her flesh as his tongue presses inside with his fingers.

It isn’t until her pleasure reaches a crescent, thighs tightening around his head, that she allows his jaws a moment of rest.

Not that it lasts long.

“I’m surprised you spoke so much about Dagda today.” She snorts at his words, shaking her head as she pulls him upwards to rest his face on her breasts. He grins up at her, well aware how endearing he looks between her boobs, and she pinches his cheek in silent retaliation.

“Is this what you think about when you cum? Should I teach you a lesson in focus?” He shivers at her words, equal parts delighted and fearful. Their last lesson in focus had resulted in him crying out in the archery field as she had her way with him, pinching his nipples and hissing sinful words into his ears as she jerked him off until he could make a passable shot between hitched moans. He had never aimed so poorly before, even as a child.

Ah, the power of love. And lust. Mainly lust, in this case.

“Maybe you should,” he teases. Byleth raises a careful brow, humming softly as her fingers rub into his back, no doubt tracing the scars. Some from their play, but many more from a past before her. “I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

It would be rude to mention Jeralt while they’re both still hazy and warm from sex. Claude matches her hum, closing his eyes, feeling her fingers creep upwards to comb through his hair. Unruly, certainly, though at her hands. It was Byleth who enjoyed tugging his hair as she led him around the room.

Not that he didn’t enjoy gasping at her feet, knees burning as he crept, waiting for that one vicious grin when she would turn around and take him fully.

“Let’s go to Dagda.” The image of a train flickers in his mind, quickly replaced by the faded ink doodles he had first spied in Jeralt’s diary. He had never named Dagda in full, but Claude had recognized it at first sight. The depictions of the trains, the ships, the hurried people wearing velour suits and sapphire trim. It was an older Dagda than the one he knew, with shorter routes and heavier trains, but it was Dagda nonetheless.

“The sea there is beautiful,” Claude says, half stolen from the diary pages and half his own thoughts when he saw the sunset from that room reserved for royalty. A diplomacy trip he had never wanted to end. “And I like the clothes. You’d look good in their corsets.” She smirks at him, tucking a strand of loose hair behind his ear. “I haven’t been there in years.”

Back then, he hadn’t known it would be more awkward to visit after ascending to the throne. The only saving grace he had was that Petra had joined their class early on, and they had managed to free Brigid from unjust rule. They’d be lucky if Dagda didn’t just ban them on sight.

“Sure.”

“Sure?” Claude echoes, mouth dropping before he caught himself. The smirk on Byleth’s face slides into a smile, warm, nodding.

“I had a feeling you’d want to go. Shamir will have the details worked out in less than a week.” Then that is that. A small part of Claude squeezes at the thought that he had been read so easily; a larger part flushes with warmth at the reminder that it is his wife who knows him so well. She pulls him upward into a kiss and he moans into her mouth, happy.

“Can we bring some toys?” He asks, settling back into her boobs. They shake as she chuckles, and when her gaze draws back to him, they are sharp once more.

“I plan to.”

-

Dagda is a world apart from Fodlan. The buildings here scrape the sky, glass planes set to spiral upwards beyond even a wyvern’s comfort. There are ships here with wings, that lift from the ocean currents and drift lazily into the sky, propelled by the disposal of waste. Whereas Fodlan holds its military with pride, Dagda’s military blends into the common folk. The men who wear tall hats may once have held the title of commander, the women who bustle with slit skirts perhaps once expert marksmen.

Byleth understands now the strange sort of melancholy of Shamir’s smile when she had recounted the whimsical culture of her homeland.

Everything is different in Dagda, and yet, everything is the same. The cakes here are still cakes, sweet and dense, but Dagdan cakes come with airy cream whipped high and spun sugar called floss. Byleth sees portraits, nearly endless ones, but they are presented through open doorways for commoners to come and go, admiring works that would ordinarily only be displayed in Fodlan noble homes. Steam, once only associated with boiling water for tea, is _everywhere_ : in the ships, in the buildings, even in the common homes, powering anything and everything.

Dagda, they say, runs on steam.

Even their toys.

“It’s smaller than I remember.” Claude chuckles, poking at the miniscule model on display. A sign boasting the store’s toy train cars hangs overhead, a vivid red made distracting by the flashing lights that flicker in rhythm to the store’s music. The train whistles when he picks it up from the track, holding it up for her.

“See this?” His finger pokes at the side painting, gold embossed letters curving around the miniscule windows. She nods. “The trains I used to sit in didn’t have open windows like this. Too dangerous.” He hands the toy over to her, and as though timed, it shakes and spits out a stream of hot steam at her face.

Byleth sighs, rubbing at her wet chin, setting the toy back down. Her husband is useless, laughing into his fist with his eyes purposefully averted. She has half a mind to shove him to the floor and give him something else to laugh at.

“I think that’s enough trains for today,” Claude manages when his shoulders stop shaking, though there’s still that crooked grin on his face. She shoots him a pointed look, and though he raises his hands in innocence he’s still grinning.

“Indeed,” she sighs, and they are on their way again.

There is no end to the trains they encounter. Even just within the coastal city, trains run to and from the port and within the city itself: small, flat trolleys that stop every few blocks. It’s almost a waste of time to board them, simply faster to go by feet, but the peaceful image of rides under the rising sun, watching morning dew drop from the flowers that hand from streetlights, flickers in front of her eyes.

“Should we ride the trolley?” Claude’s eyes light up at the words. It is an easy enough process to board—buy a ticket from the ticket master at the station, and hand it to the driver to stamp when boarding the trolley. Each ticket can be used twice, so that they can hand the stamped ticket to their returning driver. It’s a convenient system, and not for the first time Byleth finds herself wondering if there is a way to implement Dagda’s life into Fodlan’s.

“Pretty, huh?” She turns at the words, glancing at the window Claude is peering out of. The trolley is slow, occasionally bumpy, and it lends itself to a nice view of the city as it glides down the streets.

“It is,” Byleth agrees. The streets here are crowded, house blending into house into store and back to house. It seems at times that Dagda is not large enough for the amount of people who want to live here, drawn by its sights and technology. Indeed, it’s hard to resist. Fodlan is centuries behind in comparison, still struggling to create a unified method of communication that doesn’t involve a troupe of pegasi fliers, whereas Dagdans can simply press a button and speak into a box to leave a message.

What is difficult to find in Fodlan seems free and easy in Dagda.

Music, jazz quartets Claude tells her, weaves throughout the streets as the trolley moves. Passengers come and go, seemingly unaware of the royalty they share seats with, or rather, uncaring. A man comes onto the trolley at one stop selling newpapers for pennies; she buys one to give to Claude, watching him devour information with fervor. Well worth the price for the way his eyes track the pages.

There’s a sentence in Almyran she spies, looking over. A photo of them, departing from a ship with Shamir looking away, dressed in a fusion of Fodlan and Almyran regalia. Here for diplomacy as much as fun.

The latter more than the former, now, since slipping from Shamir’s sight a day back.

“It smells like pine.” Indeed. Claude’s eyes find the source before she does, honed in on one of his favorite scents. A store painted a muted green with red bricks is surrounded by flora, including trees that are taller than the building itself. Byleth tugs on the thin cord running along the trolley, ringing a bell, and the trolley slows to the next stop.

“I didn’t say to stop,” Claude laughs even as they depart, one stamped ticket in each hand. She takes his elbow in hers, tugging them forward as the trolley rings again, starting up once more.

“No,” she agrees, “but we may as well.”

“Thanks.” He smiles at her, canines flashing, pulling her across the street. The windows of the store are open wide to accommodate the rows upon rows of flowers piled high above each other, with small white text scrawled on each pot. Most of them are written in Dagdan tongue, though a few have scribbles from other languages, including from Sreng, and Brigid, and a small slot for Almyra. Not a single flower from Fodlan, unsurprisingly, though perhaps that could start the trading discussion that sorely needs to occur.

Claude’s fingers trail the edges of the pots, careful not to grab at any of the flowers that dip and bob in the gentle breeze. Byleth bites back an amused chuckle at the sight—she can almost picture the wagging tail behind him as he inspects the plants. Surely if he had brought his notebook it would be open now, his hands furious as they memorize every aspect of these foreign flowers.

Instead, he picks up a small pot, brown with blue paint smeared along the rim, holding a small green cactus with yellow and white buds.

“Lovely,” Byleth says, never quite certain how to describe the flowers otherwise. Edible is one way, though she isn’t sure of that in this case, and Lorenz had sputtered and begged her to never refer to them that way again. Claude’s mouth twitches as though recounting the same memory, raising the plant to her face.

“Yep,” he replies, before depositing it in her hands. “Just like you.” He turns with a laugh before she can respond. Byleth snorts, rolling her eyes as she cradles it in one hand, bringing the other forward to squeeze his ass. He yelps, giving her a wounded look.

“Cheeky brat,” she snips. Then, because she has already arrived to the unfortunate conclusion that she is a sap for her husband, kisses his cheek. “Come on, let’s buy it.”

Dagdan stores are all seemingly around the same height and width and this one is no exception, just twenty paces between the doorway to the end of the store. The inside is painted the same muted green as outdoors, blending behind the vines and flowers that climb along the walls. She nearly misses the register in front, painted the very same.

It’s impossible to miss that there is no one inside the store besides just them. Claude stiffens behind her as she places the plant on the abandoned desk, slowly backing up. They didn’t bring their weapons with them, as a sign of growing peace between their nations, but Byleth finds herself missing the rush of heat beneath her fingers when they close around the hilt of the sword of the creator.

“Stay close to me,” she hisses in warning, low under her breath. He nods against her, casual, pretending to bend over to inspect a plant as his hand slides down his trouser pocket. He has a knife tucked away there, as does she, and she twists it from her blouse.

“I don’t feel anyone’s gaze,” Claude mumbles. A sign of how good they are, perhaps, seeing as Byleth cannot detect any gazes either. Still, she worries her lip for a moment, considering the odds. There are plenty who don’t approve of a future where Dagda and Fodlan find peace, still scarred from the wars waged over Brigid territory, and those too young to remember the warfare but too old to forget the sight of seeing a flag instead of their parents come home from combat.

None that she thought would be able to plot this far, even down to the store.

“Shh,” Claude shushes, though she hadn’t said a word. Byleth turns to him, eyes narrowed, but he simply glances upward. Her heart thrums hard in her throat as she forces herself to relax, listening.

Footsteps. A voice, slightly muffled. There are people upstairs.

“Let’s go,” she mouths. He slips in behind her, as familiar as a shadow, the man who watched her back as she his. War is kind to no one, but it had gifted her him and for that alone she is grateful. Their steps are light as they turn around the store corner, seeing the side steps disappearing behind a black curtain, armed and at the ready.

The voices get louder, certainly not concerned that their targets have disappeared. Byleth raises her dagger, every breath purposeful, slipping one foot through the curtain. No reaction. Her arm, then. Her eyes.

“Oh.”

“What?” Claude whispers, dull, before yelping as her hand closes around his wrist, pulling him inward. He hisses, dagger raised, only to freeze by her side.

Whereas the first floor had been messily arranged with bursting leaves and the smell of pollen, the top floor is almost clinical in its order. There are straight metal columns running down the storefront, painted black, holding its inventory in between small grey dividers. A man and woman are already inside, speaking to each other, as they pull something from the shelf.

The voices they heard from below. The furthest thing from assassins.

“A sex shop,” Claude chuckles, tucking his dagger away before elbowing Byleth to do the same. She makes an aborted action to smack him for that, before following his lead and walking forward. He’s right—while Fodlan’s stores were seedy and hidden in basement cracks and Almyra’s heavily perfumed over the jars and bulbs they stored, this one is almost educational in its layout. Lube next to dildos, a variety of collars hanging above leases, not one but three mannequin dressed in skin tight leather, a cage on one, a mask on another.

“Think I’d look good in that?” Byleth stifles a snort, pinching his arm. He would make an enticing painting clad in skin-tight leather, a golden cage around his dick, whining and drooling around a gag. She hums, pretending to consider, turning the corner.

The cashier has a muted green apron on. It’s the same owner.

“Is this normal in Dagda?” Claude blinks, shifting over to look.

“Nope.” He pops the word, doubling back around. “But last I knew, I was seven. Dad wasn’t exactly bringing me to these spots.”

“I’m sure,” Byleth drawls, “he’s shocked at what you’ve become.” Claude grins at that, turning his back to her as he peruses the shelves. She stares at him for a moment before sliding in to whisper.

“Really?”

“We may as well,” Claude says, grinning, “if we’re buying that cacti.” Byleth groans, combing her fingers through her hair. Part of her is tempted to leave on principle, old mercenary habits biting at her ankles, but Claude has made it a habit to collect plants from every diplomatic trip, and he seemed particularly earnest about that one.

“Fine.”

There’s something humorous in how much Dagdan toys reflect their culture. Claude plays with leather straps dyed rainbow, swooning dramatically when she mimics smacking him with one of the many whips. They have adjustable weights, for a lighter and heavier hit, and she’s reluctant to admit she considers how to sneak it past Shamir.

What draws her eye, however, isn’t the neon plugs, nor the mermaid bondage skirt (though she does look at it long enough for Claude to notice), and not even the rather tempting brushes with a tag labeling it _perfect_ for bratty bottoms. It’s Claude who notices it first, picking up something from a bottom shelf, rolling it over his hands.

“Something you like?” Satisfaction curls within her when he jumps at her voice. She chuckles against his ear, warm, sliding a hand along the dip of his back. He smiles to her, pointed, honey, then and gone again as he opens his fingers.

“Take a look,” he says, letting her pick up the metal ball. It’s cold to the touch, rolling around her fingers with ease.

“What is this?” She squints, raising the ball up to the light. It doesn’t change colors. She squeezes it, though it doesn’t soften under her hand. There is a click and then it shakes to life between her fingers, buzzing noisily.

“What did you do?” Byleth hisses. Claude presses on a button stuck to the shelf, the ball dying immediately in response. She hunches over the shelves, making out the description. “Vibrating bullet- not for insertion,” she reads off, raising an eyebrow to the ball. “Hm. Interesting.”

“Really?” Claude asks, squatting down to join her at the bottom of the shelf. Now that they’re down here, she can see the entire bottom row is made up of these rounded objects. Some are a bit larger and familiar in shape, some are connected to a remote through a wire. She wonders if any of them run on steam. “These guys? Not the big toys? You don’t want to see me in a rainbow bodysuit with a heart ass window?”

“I don’t.” She does, and he smirks at her. “These just seem… interesting. I’m going to keep looking.”

“Okay,” he relents, stepping away. “Suit yourself.”

Byleth ends up leaving with a small black bag, inconspicuous, and a cactus under one arm. It pricks at her skin until she shoves it to Claude, who carries it with significantly more joy. The trolley driver takes their stamped tickets on the way back, the train cars jostling over the rocky ground. She stares outside the window, smiling at the sound of Claude’s gentle humming, his eyes flickering from article to article. He finishes the newspaper before they return, folding it up and laying his head in the crook of her neck.

He wouldn’t dare do this in Almyra, much less Fodlan. Not in public, not so obviously, king and queen. But they are nothing more than wandering tourists here, and she squeezes his shoulder with her hand, tugging him closer.

“Pretty good date, isn’t it?” He laughs against her neck. A date? Byleth hums in reply, eyes on those colorful houses, steam drifting lazily from their chimneys.

“Yes,” she agrees, squeezing the bag between her fingers. “Let’s have an even better one tomorrow.”

-

When Byleth had woken him up with a devious smile and a plan for their date, Claude had known immediately that he was in for a day of trouble. The rush through him had been both fear and arousal, moaning when she sank her teeth into his neck, hard enough to draw blood.

“You’re excited,” he had taunted her, laughing when she shoved him back onto the bed. His laughter faded into pleased moans when she trailed a series of kisses down his neck to his nipples, rolling one in her fingers while pinching the other. He had humped against her thigh, half hard, when she had taken out that black bag from the day before.

“I am,” she smirked, “for good reason.”

Good reason, Claude knows now, is the vibrating sensation bound to his left nipple. She had taped it to his skin, kissing and fondling him as she did so, until she pulled away satisfied. The black bag had been shuffled away into her bag, not to be touched until they departed their inn and boarded the trolley.

He hadn’t heard the click, but he _felt_ it.

“Be quiet,” Byleth had instructed him that morning, pressing that silver ball down, down, rubbing it against him with that wicked flash of teeth. “If you’re good, I’ll take them off.” Them. Plural. He had glanced over to that bag, licking his lips.

“And if I’m bad?” He was a glutton for punishment.

“I’ll put them on.”

The warning rings in his head now, as the small bullet springs to life against him. It’s… odd. He had hissed when she first placed it on him, cold against his skin, but tucked between him and his clothing its well warm now. The sensation tingles in a manner not unlike shocks of electricity, but mild, and without rest.

Claude bites his lip. He’s still turned on from his morning, and the vibrations, though strange, aren’t helping him get less aroused. If anything, the sole friction against his body just being on his left nipple, and constantly as well, has only made him more aware of its presence. Byleth smiles at him, picture perfect in her long corset and pinned flowers, every bit a Dagdan wife. This time, he hears the click.

It gets faster.

“It changes speed?” He didn’t recall anything about that in the description of the one he picked up. She must have bought a different one; a pang of regret runs through him for not reading more deeply into her intrigue. Byleth simply bumps elbows with him, tucking her arm around his waist. A loving wife with her husband.

“Quiet.” She rubs circles around his hip with that grin, words soaked with confidence.

“What, I’m not allowed to talk?” His voice doesn’t shake, thankfully, but he twitches when she pretends to adjust his collar, pressing her forearms against it. It feels _more_ like that, flush against his skin, unnatural and unusual.

“Cheeky,” Byleth appraises, kissing him without none of the bite. The trolley bells rings behind them as it crosses the tracks along the streets, the sounds of heels clicking on cobblestone as Dagdans take the Sunday morning to shop.

Their day trip plans are rather simple, in all honesty. Dagda’s most known tourist trap are their ports, home to colossal brass ships pouring enough steam to rival clouds. Every year they host a carnival here for inventors and schemers around the world to showcase their ideas in hopes of achieving one of the coveted sponsorships available. The amount of winners is never known, the ones chosen also kept secret, until well after years later when those who have succeeded can tout their prize and new riches.

The only problem at hand is that Claude had been planning on meeting Mars, a Dagdan scientist only known for—what, helping _transform steamships_? Byleth had chuckled when he told her about the man, but he was nothing to laugh about. Mars had been a revolution even in Almyra; Claude remembers even know when those ships slid into the Almyran harbor, staring at the billows of smoke, the glossy gears, the way it glided through water with the same ease as the geese he hunted.

Mars had shaken the hand of Almyra’s young prince for the papers. It’s the only photo Claude had, the technology yet to popularize in Almyra, and he treasured it.

He hadn’t expected to see the man again with a sex toy taped to his nipple.

Byleth’s eyes on him are those of the lazy cats wandering around the monastery, dangerous when they aim their sights onto their prey. It becomes impossible to differentiate the clicks as the crowds pick up, drawing closer to the carnival, but he can feel every change. Faster, slower, then stopping entirely for a moment. Claude’s shoulders shake, turning to her, but it stays off. A moment to breathe.

He nearly chokes when it clicks on a second later, faster than it was before.

“That’s not fair,” he gasps out, tempted to wrench the miserable thing off. Byleth could purr, practically glowing as she tugs him to the side.

“That’s a noise.” Irritation flares within him, hot, warning him for playing with a fool’s hand. They are hardly private here, the crowd thickening as the minutes tick by, the doors to the carnival opening soon. Byleth pulls him away, tugging his arm rougher than necessary and he would curse if it didn’t hurt so good.

“You’re cheating.” The words are barely out of his lips before she has a hand between his shirt buttons, pushing the vibrator against him. Unfair, _unfair,_ a gasp forced out of him before he can recover, the sensation absurd but strong. His fingers claw at the air, wanting to rip the tape straight off.

“Am I?” Byleth swallows him alive in a kiss, tearing away his rebellious spirit until he pants into her mouth, groaning as her hand plays with his other nipple. It hardens under her fingers, pinching, pulling, and he nearly whines when she reached into her bag again.

“One more.”

“You cheat.” She doesn’t bother answering him with a word, simply peeling his shirt to the side to place another one of those cruel toys against his bare nipple. It’s cold, left in the bag, and he hisses at the touch. She holds it there, waiting, the silent question in the air. Waiting for his okay.

“What’s wrong?” Claude teases, pulling the shirt buttons open himself, suddenly aware of how much louder the vibration sounds without those layers to muffle it. “Don’t tell me foreign affairs have scared you off.”

It’s as much a taunt as it is a reminder of their time here. Byleth scowls, her false frosty demeanor unable to hide the burning in her eyes, snipping off a length of tape. Claude swallows as the cold bullet touches him again, one still and one quivering, frozen until Byleth pulls away, satisfied.

He hardly has his shirt buttons closed when the right one bursts to life at full speed.

“ _Fuck_.” Does that count as a noise? It should, probably, but Byleth responds with nothing more than a flash of her teeth. Hungry, starved, but willing to wait until her prey tires himself out. Anything for a more delicious meal. Claude’s fingers shake as he tugs his jacket close, staring at the small bumps.

“Let’s hurry,” Byleth grins, her arm around his shoulders, “we don’t have all day to see the carnival.”

The carnival is lovely. It’s the third biggest event of the year in this city, only behind the summer’s festival where seaships depart for the first time and the beginning of the year celebrations. The port is lined with tents set up the week before, some taller than houses, each busy with research teams presenting their work every half hour, ushering in the wandering common folk to attend their seminars.

Some even give away samples, small toys and snacks for young children amazed by bubbles and flying kites. The crowds for those are relentless. Byleth, every bit the cruel mistress, forces them in line twice. The second time, he spends a minute shaking against her shoulder, biting back a scream when her fingers press down on him again.

“Khalid?”

Byleth’s hands leave him immediately. His breath stutters at the word—he _would_ be known as Khalid here rather than Claude, as much Almyra’s king as Fodlan’s. Still, between Shamir and Byleth, he hasn’t heard it often on this trip.

There would be no other name, though, that Mars would know him as.

“My, it’s been years since I’ve seen your grace last!” More than a few turn their heads when Mars begins speaking in formal Almyran rather than Dagdan. Mars curtsies, his eyes drifting to Byleth. “Fodlan’s grace, I presume?”

“You presume correctly,” Byleth answers, smooth as silk as she returns the curtsy. Her hands return to her bag, and in a moment, the bullets on him slow to a stop. A reprieve.

Never a good sign with Byleth.

“You’ve grown,” Mars appraises with warmth as he returns to Claude. “The last time we met, you barely met my knees.”

“I wasn’t _that_ small.”

It’s as though the years have never gone by. Dagda, free of the war that’s torn Fodlan to pieces, has grown spectacularly with Mars as one of its head scientists. A nation determined to spearhead the next century of progress with more than steamships—there is a foundation of research set in place to explore under the seas, above the skies. The stars that seem to taunt them stuck here on Earth are no longer quite so far away.

“Would our ships propel towards the sky? With how much power must they take off?” It’s fascinating. It’s all fascinating; enough for Claude to get lost in his daydreams.

“I wonder if birds—” The vibrations force him back to earth. His jaw shuts with a click, swallowing a groan. He had almost forgotten, swept up in the crowd, the inventions, the sounds of strangers talking away about the future. About new things.

There are two new things taped to him right now, bursting with life.

“Birds?” Mars asks. He’s not even looking, eyes still glued to the airship they were admiring before Byleth decided to flip the world upside down. They turn off as quickly as they did on, and he turns to her, expecting her to smirk, to glare, to measure out his limits—

She isn’t even looking at him when they click to life again.

“Birds are,” Claude stops, shaking, when one slows and the other picks up. His right, he thinks, is faster, and then faster, and it takes hardly a moment before his nipples are hard and protesting against the feeling.

“Khalid?”

The whine is barely out of his throat before Byleth’s hand closes around him, pulling him back to shiver against her shoulders. It’s too much all at once, pressing him close until those bullets are on every nerve, and he doesn’t manage to hide the moan against her. There’s a squeeze of her fingers, vicious, victorious, and the world swims at the realization.

“Sorry,” Byleth says, a threat and a purr at once, “he’s been on his feet all day. We’ll go rest.”

Rest means whining in her mouth as she unbuckles his pants and presses against his cock. He’s hard, he’s so hard, even more so when she takes out a third bullet and places it on the head of his cock. It’s cold, it’s small, so unbearably small, and she doesn’t even tape it on when it springs to life.

“I can’t, _ah_ ,” too much, too little, burning alive with every touch. Her eyes twinkle as his squeeze shut, hands fisting into her jacket, trying and failing to find purchase. Something to stabilize himself against these rocking vibrations. “Byleth, darling, _please_.”

“I said to be quiet,” she teases, pressing, pressing, and he’s going to die in some bathroom stall in a foreign country to three tiny balls smaller than arrowheads. “Unless you want another.”

He doesn’t. He _does_.

“Please,” he gasps, groaning when her fingers slide along his shaft. “Please.”

“If you cum,” Byleth warns, “I’m not going to stop.”

The fourth one is already on before it touches his stomach and he flinches, fingers scrabbling against her corset, squeezing her breasts. Byleth grins against his mouth, grinding against his thigh as the bullet trails down, lower, boiling him alive when she presses it under the other, practically forcing it against his slit.

He cums against her with the warning of long hours ahead of him swimming in his mind.

“O-oh, _Byleth_ ,” Claude’s teeth click as they shake. The relief had left as quickly as it came, and his knees knock when she cuts off another strip of tape. The third one hangs to his dick, ruthless against him, as the fourth one is taped lower against his balls. He’s half certain he’s going to bowl over, oversensitive and prickling with warmth.

“Too much, too,” he can’t breathe, can’t focus, the world seeming to swim in and out of view. Her hand presses against his back, steadying; that alone is all that can ground him. He knows that there are streets they walk on, that there are people talking, that he spends the entirety of their walk thankful for Dagdan fashion: tall hats and slick coats that hide them from view. He thinks he’s stained his pants. He knows he’s stained something.

Byleth has to hold him steady twice when the sensations become overwhelming and he thinks he may as well collapse right there on the sidewalk, dizzy with the heat. Claude’s certain that he’s crying, though it’s not like he can force his eyes open long enough to check.

“We’re here.” The phrase is cold relief with the feeling of sheets against his head. Claude digs into the blankets immediately, curling them around his wrist as he cries in earnest now, humping at the air. He yelps when Byleth shoves him onto his stomach, pressing him against the bed, the vibrators flush again to his skin.

“Please,” the words more breath than speech, wretched and needy, “ _please.”_ Her hand trails along his back until it cups his ass through his pants, squeezing before spanking him hard enough to rock the bed. Claude shouts, shaking, as she spanks his left cheek, then his right, before laying her body over his, one hand twisting his left nipple as she hisses in his ear.

“Even I,” Byleth mocks, chilly, stark against the heat burning him alive, “didn’t buy enough for all the noises you’ve made.”

Claude moans. He’s been bad. He knows he’s been bad—he’s broken the rules, once, twice, thrice. More so now that she’s had to pull him away, and he shakes at the noise of that bag once again. Her weight leaves his body as quickly as she had appeared and he whines at the lost, shaky hands forcing him upright as she removes his pants.

There are three more vibrators in the bag. She empties it onto the bed, and Claude blinks wearily at them. They are longer, more cylindrical than the round balls taped to his body, with wires connecting them to small silver rectangles. She pulls his legs apart with ease, smiling at the way they twitch, pulling at his rim.

“You’ve been breaking rules all day.” Her finger trails downward, pinching the skin of his thighs. He can feel her breath against his hole as she chuckles at his squirming. “Haven’t you?”

It’s an out. It’s Claude’s last out, unnecessary, unplanned, given to him precisely because he hadn’t handled the situation half as well as he had predicted. His heart betrays him, racing, until he’s arching his back to meet her eyes with a grin only half faked.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Brat.” The sound of her hand meeting his ass once more echoes in the room. He grits his teeth and groans, tempted to bury himself into the pillows. She lands three more in quick succession and every once sends him shooting forward until he’s rucking against the sheets and hissing at the vibrations rocking through him.

“What’s wrong Teach?” Claude bites out, not sure if he’s laughing or crying as his dick bobs against his stomach, hard and delirious in his sensitivity. Her hand pinches his sore cheeks, warning, and his teeth click with the force of swallowing his pained groan. “Is that all you got?”

She’d spank him for that in the past, loud and ferocious before scooping him up and jerking him off until he melted away. His thighs tense in advance as she raises them, turning him to lay on his back once more.

Byleth smiles. He is simultaneously in love and terrified.

“Not at all,” she says, and then she’s got a slick finger in him up to her knuckle. Claude clenches around her, shouting when her other hand presses against the head of his dick, forcing that vibrator flush. His fingers curl around the blankets, gasping, when she presses deeper.

He doesn’t remember when she got the oil, not like it matters when she’s got him rutting against her fingers. She pulls out and in purposeful, clinical, pumping until she’s gotten two fingers deep. Byleth has purposefully been avoiding his prostrate, making sure to press just under instead, earning her a drawn out groan.

“B-Byleth, Teach, hnn,” Claude shakes, tempted to clamp his thighs around her and force her to finger fuck him properly. His legs scramble despite himself, hooking around her waist, pulling her in close. “More…”

“Greedy slut.” Byleth swats his ass with her other hand, pulling out despite the needy whine that escapes his lips. Claude pants, drooling, trying to force his eyes open long enough to send her a pleading glance.

“Please,” Claude begs, because she likes it, because he’ll do anything to please her even if he’s got half a foot in Hell for the shocks running through his body. “Please, ah, Byleth, _Byleth_!”

He shouts as her hand, her _wet_ hand, spanks him once more. His ass burns against the sheets, and he pants as he leans his weight on his shoulders instead. Her other one stretches his rim again, pressing three fingers inside. No, not her third finger. Something cold, and slim, and—

“If you want something that bad, I’ll give it to you.”

The thing about life is it’s all about relativity. A situation that seems bad might actually feel good depending on how awful the weeks were beforehand. Time with his loving, majestic, absolutely fantastic Archbishop goddess wife? Great. Time with his loving, majestic, absolutely fantastic Archbishop goddess wife while she fucks the living soul out of him? Amazing.

And if he’s burning alive already, certain that he’s ready to crawl out of his skin from four of these wretched toys?

“Gods, gods, _too much too much too_ ,” Claude’s voice dies in a scream as she presses it firmly against him, within him, fucking him with renewed vigor. Byleth presses it right against his prostrate and he’s half certain he’s cum just now, whimpering and shaking in bed. His legs twitch as she spreads them again, wondering when he clamped them together, sobbing at the second touch of cold metal against his rim.

“Come on,” Byleth coaxes, rubbing her palm against his stomach. He whines against her, her face blurry against the tears that wet his cheeks to the pillows, wrenched from his oversensitive skin. It’s impossible to relax in full when that machine is intent on melting him into nothing, and though his mouth forms the shapes of words they die on his lips with every punched out shout.

The second slides in with the same ease as the first, and he shudders with full body sobs when it turns on with the same vigor. Claude almost wishes he were tied up so that his hands wouldn’t itch to claw within himself and dig out the bullets driving him mad, forcing him to crumple and beg and scream into the pillows in a futile attempt to muffle himself. He can’t focus on anything but the vibrations attacking every nerve in his body, and when Byleth presses something cold against him once more his legs kick out on instinct.

“Ha-ah, ple _—ase, please, please_.” He doesn’t know what he’s asking for anymore, humping at the air. Byleth pushes him onto his back with ease, sliding a pillow beneath his back, the only reprieve from the burning on his ass from her spanks to the buzzing on his nipples and cock that drown him on nothing when pressed flush. She’s naked, he thinks, blinking rapidly through his tears. He hadn’t known when she stripped. Hadn’t known how long he’s been hovering on this thin line between pleasure and insanity.

The only thing he’s aware of is the warmth of her cheeks and the wetness of her cunt as she hovers over him, licking her lips, grinning at her prize.

“Please what?” Byleth commands, sliding until her vaginal lips meet the vibrator taped still to the head of his cock. Claude shakes, mouthing, but the words won’t come out, melted away into jelly. Her hands sneak down to pinch at his nipples and he screams, certain she’ll shatter him to pieces.

“Byleth, hah, _Byleth_ , _Byl—eth, nn.”_ Her name is a mantra falling from his tongue, wanting, needing, unable to focus long enough to put the words together. He yelps when she slaps his chest, hands coming half upward to grasp at her body, feeling the line of muscles and scars burnt into her back. She’s strong. Terribly strong.

“Please what?” She’s repeating herself. She hates to do that.

But she’s grinning down at him all the same.

“Please,” Claude whines, “ _fuck me_.”

Strong enough to trust to hold him together when the world falls apart.

“Good boy.” Byleth’s flash of teeth is his only warning before she slams herself onto him, forceful, claiming, every bit prideful of the way he shouts and shudders beneath her.

Byleth fucks him with none of the clever restraint she had used throughout the day, toying with her food from a distance. She groans against him now, warm, wet, using him to satisfy every itch in her body. The vibrator lodged between the head of his dick and her is forced flat with every thrust and Claude jerks when she slams her hips roughly. He wants to cum. He wants so badly to cum, to peak and fade away, but she hasn’t yet and so he sobs beneath her.

She kisses him with the vigor of an animal, hungry, wanting, no longer willing to wait. Byleth bites him hard enough to bleed, licking at the blood, his tears, his spit. Hers. All hers. To use, to fuck with, to play with.

It’s too much. It’s all too much, the toys, the teasing, the agony of coming undone once already and crying through the rest. The pillow slips out from under him and then he’s flinching and whining around her, arms crossing at her shoulders, barely hanging on to a semblance of sanity as she rocks his reddened ass against the bed, every movement jostling the vibrators directly against him. His hips snap up to meet her, moaning together as she thrusts in a punishing pace.

“ _Please_ ,” Claude begs, wanting Byleth to use him, wanting to be used, wanting to be snapped and broken into little pieces as the lights swim in and out of vision. “Please, _please, please.”_

Byleth snaps her hips against him, clenching, groaning as the vibrator presses perfectly against her. Her loose hair tickles his collarbones as she leans over, close, enough so that when she licks her lips he can feel her tongue against his skin.

“Greedy.”

She clicks the remote right against his ears.

White hot heat shakes the screams loose from his lips as everything, _everything_ becomes more. It’s too much. It’s all too much, spreading and knocking into each other, drowning him from the inside out. Claude shivers and he pants and he cries, used and used and used and

“ _Khalid_.”

Byleth’s moan is the last thing he hears before the world shatters into pieces.

-

“Restraint. Here’s a dictionary. Look it up.”

“We’re fine. No one found out.”

“Because of who? This room isn’t soundproof. We emptied the building.”

“Did anyone see?”

“That isn’t the priority—”

“Did. Anyone. See. An order from your archbishop.”

“No, Byleth, no one saw. Not like it would matter with how loud you two were being.”

Grey. No, not grey. Wine. A sort of deep red left from dark stains impossible to full remove. The bed is warm, smelling faintly of vanilla. Freshly changed sheets. The door is open half a crack, two women arguing in hushed voices. They’re familiar. Familiar enough to know that they’re not arguing, just stern. Blunt by nature.

“By?”

“Claude.”

Shamir steps outside in the same movement Byleth turns, her eyes softening upon seeing his dizzy state. She has a cup out to him in an instant, cold glass to the touch. His arms quiver as they take the glass, downing the water in hurried swallows.

“More?” He asks. He should test for poisons. From a different person, he might.

He takes the next glass she gives him and downs it without glancing twice.

“How are you feeling?” Byleth’s fingers rub small circles against his temples, reaching up then to smooth down his hair. Claude’s lips twitch, leaning into her touch, sighing fondly when she sits against the headboard to allow him to rest against her shoulder.

“Like someone threw thoron at me… seven times?” His voice cracks, and he blinks about the room. The curtains are drawn closed. Her corset, neatly laced up in the morning, has been thrown into the corner. His clothes, on the other hand, are mostly together on the chair. He doesn’t even remember taking them off.

“Sounds about right,” Byleth chuckles, amusement seeping into her tone. She drifts her hands downward until they’re rubbing at his shoulders, kissing at his cheek and smiling softly when he returns the kiss on her lips.

“You did good,” she says, the praise warming him better than any blankets. He turns over to her, slow, content, a cat basking in the sunlight. Byleth pretends to ignore him, twitching when he lays his head against her breasts, purring softly. Eyes innocently gazing upward.

“Brat,” Byleth relents, drawing him back up for a kiss. Gentle, easy, rubbing her hand downward along his back where he feels like jelly. Claude smiles against her, laughing softly when her fingers slide to the side, tickling. “Broke all the rules and still want to be praised.”

“You said I was good,” Claude points out. Byleth grimaces, throwing on a mock glare before tugging him back against her, resting their heads against each other. She’s cooler than he is.

“Cheeky brat,” Byleth corrects, lips quirking into a smirk as Claude’s hands fondle her boobs. Truly an annoyance. “I’ve wrung you out twice and you _still_ want to keep going.”

“You’ve broken me to the point I can only be your sex toy from now on. Oh, woe is me!” Byleth scoffs, smacking his wrist without strength.

“How is that any different from before?” He pouts at her, dramatic, though his fingers do relent as he sags against her, sighing in full. Byleth’s hands come back up, running through his hair, smoothing down the strands knocked unruly during sex.

“… You did very well. Better than I expected. I suppose I should have expected as much, though, from my lover.”

Claude blinks, silent for once as he digests the words. Warmth creeps over his skin, visible in the form of a dark red sweeping across from ear to ear, and though he ducks his head back between her breasts she can still feel the heat pressed against her.

“Unfair,” he declares, muffled, “terribly unfair of you.”

Her chest shakes with her laughter, quieting only when he leans up to kiss her once more. Byleth hums into his mouth, still giggling when they break away.

“Careful,” she warns, “or I’ll think you want more.”

“I always do,” Claude grins, nosing his head beneath her chin. “More of you.”

“Cheeky,” Byleth says, and if Shamir should walk into them kissing once more, that is no one’s business but theirs.

**Author's Note:**

> hi i have no self control  
> claudeleth! vibrators! byleth being mean but sweet! claude being annoying but sweet! what else can you ask for lol
> 
> dagda is now steampunk land bc I love the idea. Shamir wears skinny jeans dagda MUST have some modernized tailoring!? anyway claudes been killed by byleth in bed a day late for the prompts but SMACK DAB in the middle of kinktober
> 
> Judge my life choices on [ twitter ](https://twitter.com/shidreamin/)


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